


Valued Family

by TextualDeviance



Series: The Raven and the Dove [49]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Babies, M/M, chosen family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5179292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextualDeviance/pseuds/TextualDeviance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Checking in on Bjorn and the gravely wounded Ϸorunn, Athelstan learns that their family may be growing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valued Family

**Author's Note:**

> Set near the end of 3x04.

His decision to return to Kattegat made, Athelstan’s interest in the rest of the victory party waned significantly. Ragnar’s attention would be required elsewhere for the duration, and he had no desire to be pulled aside again by Judith, nor to have to constantly avoid Floki’s accusing stare. Begging his leave from the political pomp and artifice of Kwenthrith and Burgred’s private celebration, he wandered down the hall to another room, to greet someone else he had missed in the intervening weeks.

Bjorn was in the corridor outside the room when Athelstan arrived. He looked up, and rubbed his face. “Hello, Athelstan. It’s good to see you.” He reached out, drawing his old friend into a tight embrace.

“And you. How is Ϸorunn?” Athelstan nodded toward the door.

Bjorn shook his head. “Not well, I’m afraid. She’s sleeping now, though. One of the healers here gave her a tincture of poppy.”

“I heard some of what happened. Can you tell me more?”

Bjorn shrugged. “There is little to say. People get hurt in battle. She was not immune to the effects of a blade, much as she seemed to act as if she were. My father was right, though.”

Athelstan frowned. “How so?”

“I suppose you hadn’t heard that part.” He smiled grimly. “She is carrying my child. For now, at least.”

“Oh! I didn’t know. Did you?”

“Yes. Which is why my father is angry with me. He said I should have kept her from fighting in her condition.” He hung his head.

“She wanted to fight though, yes? That is the impression I’d gotten from her.”

Bjorn nodded. “Yes. And I couldn’t stop her. I guess I thought my best choice would be to try to stay by her side and keep her safe. But I couldn’t.” He fidgeted with the laces on his belt.

Athelstan sighed. “I’m sure you tried. And I’m also sure that you couldn’t have stopped her from fighting even if you had tried harder to.”

Bjorn flashed a half smile. “She is like my mother in that.”

Athelstan returned the smile. “She is.” That Bjorn had chosen a woman as feisty as Lagertha wasn’t a surprise to him. “There is more than that, though. Remember that she was once a slave.”

“Of course. Aslaug freed her, though.”

“I know. But speaking as someone who was also once a slave: Being freed can come with some poor decision making. My first fights as a free man I made some grave mistakes.”

Bjorn looked surprised. “I didn’t know that.”

Athelstan shrugged. “It had never come up before. I have made my peace with it, but what happened was that I killed someone—a monk—who was no threat to me, because I was thinking only with blood and freedom on my mind. I of course don’t know her as well as you, but it is possible Ϸorunn was feeling the same as I did then.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but it makes sense. I suppose that is more reason I should have kept her closer, though.”

“You did what you could, Bjorn. Don’t dwell on what has passed. Just learn from it.”

Bjorn grinned. “Are you still my teacher, then?”

Athelstan laughed. “It has been many years since I taught you anything. You are a man grown, now. I hardly remember you as a boy.”

“I still remember you as a priest, though.” He glanced down, noticing for the first time the cross against Athelstan’s chest, and frowned. “Have you gone back to your God?”

Athelstan grabbed self-consciously at the cross, and his wounds began to throb. “I—no. Not exactly. Though being in my homeland has made me more aware of it again. This is something I wore when I last was in Ecbert’s house. It was part of my robes then. It’s . . .” From the corner of his eye, he also noticed the arm ring dangling from his wrist as he clutched the pendant. “It’s like this, in a way. As the arm ring binds me to your father—to the king—this cross also binds me to the part of me that’s still a boy in a monastery in Northumbria.”

“But you are one of us now, are you not? You are a Northman. You believe in our gods.”

“I am. I do. The Allfather is deeply important to me. Yet I cannot divorce myself from the person I was before, either. It is much the same as it is with Ϸorunn: Part of her will always remember being a slave, and that will always affect what she does and how she does it.”

Bjorn’s voice took on an edge of darkness. “My father wondered whether being back here—back with King Ecbert—would make you want to stay. Has it?”

Athelstan paused, wondering how honest he should be. He finally decided there was no point in being cagey. “It did, briefly. But my home is with your family. My home is Kattegat. The people here don’t . . . well, let’s just say that they don’t have my heart the way your family does.”

“The way my father does.” Bjorn smiled gently. “And the way you have his.”

Athelstan blanched. Ragnar had told him, not long after their return last year, that he had confessed the truth of their relationship to his eldest, but it still felt odd to be speaking about it now. Somewhere inside, he did still remember the boy Bjorn used to be, and it seemed weird to be talking about being in love with his father. Finally, however, he nodded. “Yes. I am in part still a Saxon—still a Christian—but even that part still loves your father.” He smiled. “And you and your brothers, albeit in a much different way, of course.”

Bjorn returned the smile. “I was never sure before what to call you—how to think of you. You are family, but you are not my uncle. You are not my brothers. Not even my stepmother, for that matter. I respect Aslaug now, but I must say that I see you as more of a parent than I have ever seen her. I would not trade my brothers for anything, but at times I wish my father could have married you instead of her. Many things would be different now.”

Athelstan went quiet in surprise at the boy’s candor—and wisdom. Yet his words had also reminded him of the marital drama that awaited them back in Kattegat, and that thought made him uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he patted Bjorn’s shoulder. “Anyway. The night grows longer. I should let you go sit with Ϸorunn again and get some sleep myself. Please give her my wishes for a fast recovery.”

Bjorn nodded. “I will. Good night, Athelstan.”

“And you, Bjorn.” He turned to go, but before he got far, Bjorn called after him again. He looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“If Ϸorunn’s baby—my baby—pulls through this, I hope you will spend time with him—or her.”

Athelstan brightened. “Of course.”

“Ϸorunn does not know where her family is. They may all be dead. I would like my child to know more family—more grandparents.”

Athelstan flushed and couldn’t help an odd shiver. He hadn’t yet even created a child himself. The idea of being a grandfather seemed wholly bizarre. And yet Bjorn wasn’t completely off the mark. He had no legal or biological claim to Ragnar’s children, of course, but in a way, he was another parent for them—especially for Bjorn himself. “Thank you,” he finally said, and made his way back to his room.

It took him a long time to settle once he was finally abed. Too many thoughts swirled in his head, and grief for the loss of his dear friend Torstein had made him weep for a long time, too. He felt aggrieved that he could not have been at the ceremony to send him to Valhalla. Yet other thoughts kept intruding, too: So many babies and children had he seen and cared for, and yet another might be born not long after their return to Kattegat, should the gods smile on Ϸorunn and her child. All of these children he loved, and yet they all were born of someone else’s seeds. For a fleeting moment, he felt sad that his brief—lone—tryst with Judith would not have likely born fruit due to her still feeding her other child. As he drifted into a fitful sleep, he wondered if she, too, would be sad about that.


End file.
